[For The Worker.]
The whirligigs were spinning as I stepp'd upon the floor,
Th' boss was sitting smoking on a woolbale near the door;
Sez I "Now, look 'ere, Mister, can I 'ave a look 'aroun'-
Yer see, I am a chummy bloke come out from Orange town"
Sez he : 'O' 'course', my sonny; step in, don't be so afraid."
I did, and near went balmy with the buzzing in my head.
Oh, the whirligigs were flying,
An' the shearers they were sighing,
An' the little lambs were crying-
Yes, they were now, strike me red !
Gorstruth ! What's that? "Oh, nothing, but the jingling of a bell-
'Tis smoke-oh," said a rouseabout; "just twenty minutes' spell."
An' then I sees the slushy, with a bucketful o' tea,
Inviting all the boys to have a real teetotal spree.
There was cakes and ginger snappers.
Currant buns and doodle flappers,
Fancy bread done up in wrappers-
An' the blanky feed was free !
Then argooments at once began about a blessed hoss,
An' Micky said no crimson nag was good as old Milos ;
"Lor ! Strike me pink!' sez Ginger, "I ain't worth a feed o' chaff ;
You'll, find at Orange races that 'e ain't no good by half.
So' jist' stop your' blessed nagging',
You're a bit, too fond o' magging,
Tho' at graft yer mostly lagging."
Blime ! Ginger made me laugh.
But Casey and his cobber now are racing run for run,
To see which, when th' shed cuts out will be th' biggest gun.
Yet, gosh-a'mighty ! bless yer, Jimmi didn't 'ave a show,
For Deenham 'e was gainin' like a good 'un every blow.
Oh ! the driving' rod it clatter'd,
An' the men look'd worn and batter'd.
An' the lambs' wool, it was scattered-
Just like heaps of fallen snow.
Sid Maybray, Murphy, Norton didn't 'ave a word to say,
For they were' striving mighty 'ard to earn a quid a day,
An' laughing at the snaggers down the far end of th' board-
Well, when yer shearin' two to one to laugh you can afford.
Ah, the perspiration' running,
An' th' little jumbucks funning,
Oh ! the noise was almost stunning-
Yes, it was, so 'elp me Lord !
Now look a here, I am a chap what's seen a thing or two,
I ain't got much ter larn, you bet ; I ain't' now, strike me blue !
But never did I see the like in all my life before,
'Twas just like Tommy Atkins fighting with the blanky Boor.
What with bloomin' shearers swearing.
Blessed combs and cutters wearing,
There is not a moment sparing,
Whin the Iambs are gettin' shore-
Oh, there's not a moment sparing, whin the lambs are gettin' shore.
ALICK DAWSON.
Orange.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Worker 21 Jan 1905 Page 8.
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